A Death in the Family
by Closet Wolf
Summary: Carol reacts to Beth's death and wonders what to say to Daryl. Oneshot, slight Caryl.


**A Death in the Family **

**Oneshot, *slight* Caryl **

* * *

Carol had found the journal somewhere between the hospital and the last house they'd stayed in.

She couldn't remember where she'd picked it up, honestly. It might've been one of the houses they slept in. It might've been in one of the stores they'd found food in. It might've even been in the damn hospital (but she didn't like to think about the hospital). She wasn't sure. Lately, the days blurred together, and nothing seemed remarkable anymore besides the miracle that they were all still alive. Even that was beginning to lose its merit. She had watched another innocent, young girl die, and watched her friends get just a little closer to losing all hope. She couldn't remember what her last meal had been. She couldn't even remember the last real conversation she'd had. What she could remember was too painful to dwell on; Beth checking up on her, Beth saving her life. Beth's brains exploding from her skull, and a touch of red on Rick's cheek.

Daryl's immediate vengeance; the sounds he'd made when they found their way out of that miserable city. He hadn't spoken a word since Beth had died. She was pretty sure he hadn't slept, either. He was one of the only things left that she gave a shit about.

The night was dragging on, and Carol counted the seconds, wondering what time it was, what day it was, what month even. It was late, she knew that much, and the moon was bright. Carol's space in the room was closest to the window; she had a thin quilt and a throw pillow, more than she'd expected to have. There were beds, of course, but Carol had never been the type to call 'dibs'. Anyway, most of the group was asleep in the living room of the house they'd claimed for the night. Rick and Carl were both curled up on the couch. Michonne slept on a chair, curled in on herself, machete within arm's reach. Tyreese had made a bed like Carol, a little further away from the group, and was snoring softly. Rosita and Abraham had claimed a bedroom. Same with Maggie and Glenn. Eugene had slunk off somewhere.

And Daryl was sitting on a stool near the door, hunched over, crossbow by his side.

Carol opened her eyes wide and stretched, looking at the night sky through the crack of window that was visible. The moon was full and cast a thin streak of light across her face. One of the appeals of the place they'd found was that most of the windows were boarded up. They'd been apprehensive of the house at first - what if there were survivors already inside? - but they'd found the place empty. No corpses, no walkers, no signs of recent life. It didn't even look like someone had left the place in a hurry, there were no clothes thrown about and the cupboards hadn't even been looted. It was as if the house had just been waiting for someone to come home.

Carol slowly rose from her makeshift bed, glancing around the room tiredly. Everyone was out like a light apart from Daryl. Carol slipped the journal out from her musty quilt and ran a hand over its cover. It was leather bound, soft and supple, and there was nothing written on the inside. It was strange to think that there were thousands of journals just like the one she'd found, journals that would never be written in, journals that would sit in bookstores for possibly hundreds of years and never be sold.

Carol placed the journal in the sliver of light that came in through the crack in the board. She wanted to write something, but didn't know where to begin. There was too much to say, and none of it was good. When she was younger she'd kept a journal, but being married to Ed had made her lose her interest in writing. Once she had stopped feeling whole and happy, she couldn't bring herself to record her life anymore. But there was some solace to be found in recording her life. Maybe someone could learn a thing or two from her story. Then again, just about everyone left alive had a similar tale of woe.

At the corner of her eye, Carol noticed Daryl raising his head to look at her. He was nothing but a shadow in the corner, barely breathing, barely making a sound at all. Most of the time, he didn't even shift in his seat, though his back had to be killing him. She couldn't bring herself to go to him. She knew that Beth had found a special place in his heart, and that alone was an honour very few would ever have. She couldn't begin to have that conversation with him - the conversation she'd had over and over, when Sophia had died. She couldn't help but think that Beth should've been the one to live; she was a sign that then world still had good in it. Carol was a survivor, and only that.

"What's that?" the sound of his voice startled her, but she didn't even look up, just shrugged and opened the small book. She was easy to startle but she never showed it, never cried out, never moved too suddenly. He knew this about her. Daryl raised himself from the stool then, his silent footsteps going towards her, then stopping once he was next to her. No one so much as shifted in their sleep. Daryl was the quietest man any of them had ever known.

"Something I found." Carol kept running her hands over the thing as if it was a small animal. Daryl raised an eyebrow.

"What d'ya need it for?" his voice always surprised her. He could speak so gently, when he wasn't paying attention.

"I thought I could write our story." Daryl shot her a suspicious look at that, but then sat down, cross-legged. Carol shrugged, closing it suddenly, pushing it back under her quilt.

"I don't actually know why I picked it up. I just wanted it. I don't usually want things anymore." Her voice was barely audible, but Daryl was a hunter, and always caught every word she spoke to him.

Deciphering their meaning was another story. Neither of them had ever really known what they wanted. They were a strange pair, constantly gravitating towards one another, but not like magnets or lustful lovers. They felt a pull, a gentle tug, and that was all. He had never been in love, had never truly been with a woman. The romance in her life had gone out like a candle long ago, and she figured there wasn't enough wax for it ever to be lit again.

But still, they wanted each other. Needed each other, even. When they saw each other in the woods, Daryl had been shaking, desperate, had clung to her like a lost child. He had nearly broken her heart; he was the only one who had ever missed her that much, in her whole life. Maybe there was sexual tension, maybe there wasn't. But neither of them even knew how to recognise it anymore, and neither of them thought too much of it. They had each other, and that was the luckiest thing in a world, while the dead still hunted them.

"I'm sorry," Carol said, trying to catch his eye. She inhaled sharply, nerves rattling her out of nowhere. "Beth - Beth was so strong, so brave - "

"She was good." Daryl gave her one of his penetrating looks, the kind of look that used to shake her to her core, used to make her sick with emotions, used to make her head spin when she tried to understand him. Now the look was as familiar as his crossbow. She loved him for looking at her like that, like she was important to him, and not like she was a mistake.

"So it goes," Carol finally said, the quote feeling strange on her tongue. She had been a librarian, once. Quoting books she used to love felt a lot like being haunted by her own ghost.

Daryl's hand had found her knee, and was gripping her, his hand shaking. She remembered that he hadn't really slept since the night they'd spent together, before she'd gone to the hospital.

"Carol." His face was close to hers now. She looked back at him, waiting. He pressed his forehead to her, mutely, closing his eyes. "Don't leave me."

Carol closed her eyes as well, then reached up to touch the back of his head. Her face was wet with tears. Hers or his, she wasn't sure.

"I won't."

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Thanks for reading.

"So it goes" -_Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_


End file.
